Cybertronian Survival Guide
by Nicor Warg-Fyrweorm
Summary: After learning about the intricacies of the Cybertronian race, Spike is put to the test when an innocent game turns into a deadly survival trial. Can the human survive? Can the Autobots? And, if so, will things ever be the same? (Sequel of "Cybertronian Culture and Biology 1-0-Y")
1. Rules of the Endgame

_The first and most important thing to remember when dealing with Cybertronians, regardless of them being present or not, is that they are a completely different alien species than humans. That means that everything they say or do must be looked at twice, in the event that even familiar gestures turn out to be not what we thought at first._

 _The second lesson is that there are divisions among the Cybertronians, the most important of which isn't whether they are Autobots or Decepticons, at least if it isn't a matter of immediate survival, but whether they have wings or not._

 _Winged Cybertronians are natural predators, more 'animalistic' than non-winged ones, and so being careless in their presence can result in damage. They have an exclusive language as well. To clear it up, they are tamed wolves, while the rest are dogs, and the same applies, to a lesser extent, to those whose alt mode is a war machine or, plainly, a weapon._

 _Beware when dealing with these warmechs._

 _Talking about physical differences, the visor in place of optics is actually natural rather than an addition, at least most of the time, and merely means that those mechs have a different visual range than those with optics. Facemasks are also optional._

 _One rule that will spare many a headache is to never assume anything about familial relationships, as the newborn Cybertronians are transferred to an 'adult' frame when they are born, and so there are no physical clues to tell them apart. Cybertronians don't grow physically, only mentally. As thus, many a mech may be related despite them not looking alike._

 _And, on that topic, Cybertronians don't have genres. Just because a mech is referred to as 'he', it doesn't mean they're male. As thus, all Cybertronians can carry a child, rarely twins._

 _Twins may be more or less similar depending on how much coding they share._

 _About families, it's also important to mention that Cybertronians can be created through an ancient computer of their homeworld, thus having no parents, by one mech or by two. That is because all Cybertronians are, in essence, a mass of energy in a robotic body, called sparks. When these sparks split, a 'baby' Cybertronian is born, and transferred into a frame of their own._

 _Cybertronian sparks can store incredible amounts of data, both from the actual partner of the mech or former ones or the parents and, more rarely, grandparents. So, taking that into account, the child might be of a completely different frame type as the parent or parents._

 _Their sparks also allow them to connect to other mechs, creating bonds that allow them to know, to a varied degree depending on their development, how the other mech is doing._

 _There are thirteen different frame types, some easily recognized and others harder to classify. These are Road Runner (cars), Shuttle, Chaser (motorbikes), Femme, Minibot, Builder (construction vehicles), Triple Changer (two alternate modes), Seeker (jets), Doorwinger (doors carried as wings in root mode), Cassette Carrier, Medic (identified by inner structure), Tread Roller (tanks and weapons) and Cargo (vans and trucks). There are also Hybrids, that may look more or less like a certain frame type, or like none at all. Some Hybrids may also develop unique abilities due to the mixed coding._

 _The abilities that are characteristic of a mech and can't be replicated are Sigma Abilities. However, some are thanks to the aid of some external factor or machine attuned to the mech, and so are not exclusive._

 _Cybertronians have storage 'pockets' known as subspace, able to compress most everything without problem, even parts of themselves when they transform. They also have anti-gravity systems that allow them to be lighter than they may look, thus allowing them to better blend in, when it comes to those whose size decreases drastically in their alt mode._

 _The Cybertronian history begins with a creation myth not unlike that of some human religions: One powerful being decided to create robots and gave them a part of his soul, his spark, to gift them life. The creation of their world, Cybertron, came after, once the robots became independent enough that their creator decided to find them a world to live on, and they chose to stay roaming the galaxy with him, thus the creator turned his own body into Cybertron._

 _He also gifted yet another part of his soul to the lead Cybertronian, earning him the title of Prime, of leader of their people, as long as he carried the Matrix of Leadership._

 _Further along their history, a Senate was created to better rule Cybertron and its populace, bringing in a Golden Age, but, eventually, it became corrupted, prompting Megatron to rise and unite his Decepticons in a coup to overturn the Senate and bring in a new government._

 _However, Megatron became power-hungry, and so the Autobots, led by Optimus Prime, opposed him for the sake of Cybertron, with the conflicts escalating into the war they are currently fighting, as neither side can agree about the future of their planet._

 _Culturally, Cybertronians get along better with those of their same frame type or related ones—Fliers on one side, Grounders on another, Doorwingers usually in the middle—but they are all more than capable of living alongside different ones in peace, as long as they keep their spark-code, their instincts, controlled._

 _Cybertronian 'stories', however, have more than a degree of truth in them, unlike human ones._

 _Zombies and ghosts are very real problems for Cybertronians._

 _Cybertronian zombies, known as Frame Snatchers, occur when a dead frame is inhabited by a parasitic organism. Most Frame Snatchers pose no problem, but others are able to control the frame to move and infect other Cybertronians, no matter if they're dead or alive, as it all depends on the parasite in question._

 _Ghosts are not incorporeal apparitions, but rather the result of old transmissions rebounding off stars' magnetic fields. Most Cybertronians can only detect them as a brief flicker of static in their comm lines, but certain frame types, most notoriously Cassette Carriers, can hear the messages loud and clear, and, sometimes, be pulled into them as if they were actually happening._

 _When those ghosts consist of parts of a mech's being, the event leads to a 'possession'. It can happen that the ghost overwrites the living mech, resulting in their being replaced by the ghost, dead for all accounts._

 _There's a third monster of Cybertronian culture that is thought to be nothing more than a myth among them, with the blatant exceptions of those that encountered one. They are called Spark Eaters, and, as the name implies, they feed from the sparks—souls—of other Cybertronians._

 _To all effects, Spark Eaters are demon-possessed mechs, as they are 'created' when their spark is infected by the virus, turning them into creatures that care for nothing other than devouring sparks, with no remnants of who they once were left behind._

Putting his pen aside, Spike stretches on his seat on a desert rock, shadowed by a practically dozing Hoist.

Below them, the game of football has already begun, once the older members of the _Ark_ crew finished explaining the specifics of the game to the newbies, mostly the Aerialbots and the new arrivals from Cybertron, the Protectobots.

And he missed the beginning. Tsk.

"Hey, Hoist. Who's winning?" the boy calls, and the Medic almost stumbles off his seat at the voice, rebooting his visor a couple times before looking down at Spike.

"What? Did you say something?"

The teenager laughs, closing his new notebook and pocketing it, along the pen, before gesturing to the game.

"I asked if you knew who's winning, but seeing how you're practically dead on your feet…"

"Hey, not my fault the sun's so nice on my plating," the green mech answers with a shrug and a sheepish grin. "As for your question… Perceptor, who's winning?" he asks the mech sitting by his side.

"The Dinobot-Aerialbot team, but if Jazz manages to complete that—" the red mech answers, leaning a bit further on his seat so that the human can see him too, but Grimlock and Sludge cut through his words when they tackle the saboteur to the ground, with Slag and Snarl jumping right after them on top of the pile, in case the black and white mech tried to slither through the tangle of limbs, and the scientist flinches with a low whistle. "Alright, forget I said that."

Hoist and Spike can't help but chuckle, watching as Sideswipe and Sunstreaker rush to the Dinobot pile to scold them, while Hot Spot and Streetwise argue with Silverbolt and Slingshot about whether or not that was a legal move.

Bumblebee, whistling shrilly with the Cybertronian-sized whistle Wheeljack built exactly for this kind of situations, quickly interrupts the brewing brawl, pulling them apart more thanks to his role as referee than his own small size, while the rest help the Dinobots up.

As soon as Sludge is back to his pedes, Bluestreak, standing at his side, turns to the spectators with quick whirring and sharp clicks, immediately cutting everyone off, and the Medic rushes to the field with a shrill short whistling sound that Spike has learned to recognize as a curse.

So, the boy and Perceptor immediately follow after the Medic, as the green mech orders the players to move back and give him room to work.

Or, at least, that's what the teenager thinks he's doing, as he's still speaking in Cybertronian.

When they get to his side, they immediately see the reason for Bluestreak's summons.

Jazz is sitting up next to the squashed ball, visor black and huddled a bit forward, with a servo hovering over a large dent on his helm that has managed to flatten a sensory horn.

The scientist and the human wince in unison.

True, Spike may not know how much that must hurt, but he's sure it _has_ to be extremely painful.

"Did anyone get the serial of the troop of Tread Rollers that drove over my helm?" the saboteur asks with a woozy voice, visor flickering a couple of times before letting it stay black. " 'Cause I'm gonna have words with their commanding officer…"

"Yes, I can only guess. But you're going nowhere until I have this—" Hoist answers tiredly, reaching for Jazz's raised servo—

In a fluid movement faster than human eyes can follow, the black and white mech has the Medic faceplate-down on the dirt and is sitting on his back, a shimmering pinkish blade on a servo aimed at the green Autobot's neck cables.

"No. Touching," the saboteur hisses, expression far more serious than any other time Spike has ever seen, and visor finally alight.

Hoist is frozen in place, his own visual band almost white with fear, and so are the rest of Autobots, none of them willing to make a move and endanger the Medic.

A second passes, followed by another, and another, but the TIC's seriousness doesn't vanish, his firm grip on the knife doesn't waver.

"Jazz?" Spike whispers, more than a little worried, and immediately regrets having ever opened his mouth as the saboteur's helm tilts the necessary bit to give the human his whole attention.

"What are you supposed to be?" the black and white mech asks almost conversationally, and the teenager's stomach drops to his feet.

"I—I'm a human. You know, this planet's natives? We're friends, don't you remember?"

"Remember?" Jazz repeats with an odd twisting of his mouth, before he drops off Hoist with a tired groan, knife on one servo and the other hovering over his busted horn and the rivulets of pink running down his helm. "Aw, slag, not _again._ "

Still too tense to move, the rest of Autobots nevertheless exchange bewildered looks, while the Medic slowly gets to his knees, subtly moving away from the pouting saboteur.

"Are you alright?" the green mech asks softly, and the Head of Spec Ops gives him a too sharp grin that makes Hoist stiffen.

"I just realized my memory banks got scrambled thanks to whatever did this," Jazz answers almost nonchalantly, gesturing to his damaged helm. "I've no idea where or when we are, nor who any of you are, other than Autobots. So, you can guess how I am."

"Right. Sorry."

"They're all friends. Really!" Spike exclaims, moving towards the saboteur, who gives him a sideways glance.

"Look, no offense, squishy, but it isn't like I can trust _you_ either."

All noise dies in less than it takes to blink.

Squishy.

Jazz has called Spike _squishy_.

That's… alright. That's alright. It isn't like he _knows_ who the teenager is, after all, so it's fine.

"Er, will you let me take a look at that now? I'm a Medic," Hoist finally asks, attracting the saboteur's attention once more, as well as his too sharp grin.

"Nope. Don't get me wrong, I know you're a Medic, but no one's taking a look at nothing. I'll deal with my own repairs, and when I remember who you are, I'll _apologize._ "

The way that last word is spit, alongside the widening of that smirk, makes all of them shudder.

How… How can _this_ mech be _Jazz?_ Friendly, cheerful, jokester Jazz?

Or, better said, how could the Jazz they know ever have been _this?_

Movement from the direction of the _Ark_ grabs their attention, and so, after a moment for the sun to stop blinding them as it reflects off the newcomers' plating, Ratchet and Prowl come into view.

"Ah, finally a known mech," the saboteur whispers, fluidly getting to his pedes, though he wobbles a bit once upright, grimacing.

No one moves to help, though there are various aborted motions.

He still has that Energon-like blade in his servo, after all.

"Jazz, report," the Praxian orders as soon as they're close enough, one extended arm keeping Ratchet behind him, much to the Medic's clear displeasure.

The saboteur's next grin isn't sharp, but outright _cutting._

"You don't have the power over me to request that, _Enforcer._ "

The collective gasp does nothing to interrupt the two officers' stare, but it's enough to let Spike know the rest are also at a loss as to what to do.

Including, if his sudden tension is any giveaway, Prowl himself.

"Are you aware you have suffered a scrambling of your memory banks?" the Tactician finally asks, even more serious and cold than usual.

"Yes, I know that. Annoying as it is, you know. It's always a pain to figure out what part I'm supposed to play after these slagging things," the saboteur answers with a shrug, and, unconsciously, the rest relax slightly at that impression of the mech they know.

"Do you know who I am?"

"I know _of_ you."

And the tension returns, most notably on Prowl's side of things, because his doorwings are suddenly pulled back to the point they're no longer visible.

It takes no more than a blink for the rest to catch on that there's something _really_ wrong there.

For the first time since he got to know the giant mechanical aliens that crash-landed on Earth, Spike realizes that he doesn't know Jazz.

Or, well, who he was before the War.

He knows about Enforcers, and civilians, and how Mirage was a Noble and Hound worked in the Wilds as something akin to a park's ranger, but the small black and white isn't just another Spec Ops operative.

He's the Head, the leader, and with good reason.

But he has no idea _how_ he came to be who he is now.

And, as far as he knows, there's only one mech that could—but won't, never will, not without a life or death situation pressing him to—answer that question.

The same mech that is now showing more than clear signs of wariness, of defensiveness.

And if _Prowl_ is scared of _Jazz…_

The rest need no more clue to step away as quickly but inconspicuously as possible, and Spike doesn't hesitate when he follows.

The saboteur, obviously, notices, but the only thing he does is look at the retreating Autobots with an amused smirk twisting his Energon-stained faceplate.

"Now, now, are you serious? All these big bad mechs, scared of poor little me? Why, Enforcer, what have you told them?" the Head of Spec Ops asks the SIC nonchalantly, but Prowl stays firm, unmoving, despite his folded doorwings and the clawless yet curled dactyls.

"Nothing. They know you well enough."

"My, what kind of stories do the Autobots hear about us?" the smaller mech muses to himself, voice soft but still audible. "And what do you know of us, Enforcer?"

"More than enough," the Praxian answers, tone clipped and voice sounding... strained?

"Really," Jazz purrs, smirk enlarging and sharpening, as the Doorwinger tenses further.

"You told me. Everything. I _know you._ "

The Head of Spec Ops snorts at that, twirling the knife absentmindedly in his servos.

"Sure, sure. Everyone _always_ says that. Now, care to tell me why do I have the Autobot insignia on my chest plates?"

"You're an Autobot. The Third in Command and the Head of Special Operations. You _chose_ this," Prowl answers, strange emphasis put on the last verb, and a cold shiver travels up Spike's spine.

He _really_ doesn't want to know _why_ it is there.

It doesn't help that Jazz starts laughing as soon as the Praxian stops speaking.

And laughs.

And laughs.

By the time he's done, he's back sitting on the ground, curled on himself and holding his middle, his fans whirring audibly and his voice box 'hiccupping' every now and then.

"I chose— _hahaha!—_ I _chose—_ chose becoming an _Autobot?_ _Me?_ "

And he breaks down laughing again, only for the cackling to be cut through by a sharp whistled whirr.

The silence is so sudden and so _complete_ that Spike's ears ring.

Jazz isn't laughing anymore, he isn't even smiling, and, despite the blue visor, the boy can only think about a certain Spark Eater-related nightmare, months ago, when the black and white mech uncurls just enough to see the Praxian, shadows covering his faceplate.

Prowl merely stares back.

And then, with a huff, the Head of Spec Ops gets to his feet, something that, in any other situation, would be a rueful smile twisting his lips softly, innocently, genuine.

It is the fakest expression Spike has ever seen.

"Hey, Medic Ratchet, think you can do me a favor, Autobot to Autobot?" the saboteur asks, walking casually towards the Praxian and the white mech standing tensely behind him, and, after a moment of surprise, the Medic nods. "Fix my helm, will you? Oh, but don't touch the processor, it should sort itself out in two orns, at the latest."

Jazz's voice is cheerful, casual, with the characteristic drawl that the teenager has learnt to recognize as _security_ since his life got tangled up with this alien conflict, but there's no mistaking the situation despite of it, especially when the saboteur moves past Prowl's side—but stops, so that they are standing side by side, staring each in a different direction, like so many crucial movie scenes.

"And, if it doesn't, I will enjoy extinguishing this one's spark."

Without another word, another _sound,_ Jazz resumes his walk towards the _Ark._

* * *

 **AN:** Hello, everyone! I finally got around to writing the sequel to _Cybertronian Culture and Biology 1-0-Y_ , isn't it amazing?

By the by, just to make it clear, this happens after the end of season 2, but before the movie and the construction of Autobot City.

Anyway, as you can see, things are going to be a bit rocky now, and everything Spike learned in the prequel will be put to use one way or another in this fic, including some new things that he'll learn along the way. And, as you can see, it won't be as easy as having to watch his words :P

And don't worry, I haven't forgotten about the Decepticons, they'll come into the scene soon enough ;)

I believe that's all I had to say, so... Enjoy?

 **Update:** I modified a couple things, but most noticeable of all is that "Body Snatchers" became "Frame Snatchers". Why? 'Cause they're a Cybertronian monster, thus have a Cybertronian 'name'. I'll change it in the prequel too, and that'll be their future name from now on.


	2. Forgotten History

**AN:** I changed the rating of this story to M (Mature). You'll see why in a bit (Violence, blood... If you've read _Time Paradox_ , you know what I mean).

* * *

"Bounce back."

All conversation ceases as everyone's attention is redirected to the door, to the mech entering with his usual poise and grace, but also with his tense frame betraying his nervousness at the current situation.

"What was that, Raj?" Hound asks when the newcomer sits at their table, arms crossed against his chestplates almost defensively.

Or in an attempt to comfort himself.

Spike's not sure what option scares him more, so he stays silent, cross-legged on the by now warm metallic surface, as they all await for an explanation of the cryptic words.

"I was tasked to guard Ratchet in Med Bay and try to get Jazz up to date on our current situation. He's off now to meet with Prime, Prowl and Ironhide, so Ratchet told me what exactly happened outside," the Noble explains, plating stiffening as if to keep himself from shaking, and optics on the table. "That's what Prowl said, before Jazz threatened to deactivate him."

"And…?" Cliffjumper prompts, leaning closer and gesturing with a servo, as the two Spec Ops agents exchange questioning looks.

"If it's a code, I've never heard it before," Hound finally answers, shrugging, with a hesitant smile on his faceplate. "Maybe it was meant literaly?"

"Prowl's not one to be so roundabout. That's Jazz's thing," Gears muses out loud, receiving agreeing nods or grimaces.

"I think…" Mirage starts hesitantly, still avoiding the gazes of the rest and once more attracting all attention, "I think it _is_ a code… Only, one we don't know."

"Codes between Jazz and Prowl? Now, _that_ I believe," Windcharger pipes up, clearly relieved, but, while some Autobots cheer up, others only become more somber.

"Do you forget that, whatever it means, it made Jazz threaten to _deactivate_ Prowl?" Hound reminds them all, and silence and wariness dawn again.

"But, if he knew that would happen, why would Prowl _say it_?" Spike finally questions, sure that everyone else is wondering the same.

And, as one, all turn once more to Mirage.

The Noble is still sitting stiffly with arms crossed against his chest and gaze on the table, but he obviously notices the attention, as he tenses further before, finally, reluctantly, letting out a sigh as his optics go dark.

"Back before the war, before—before the Towers collapsed, I inadvertently walked in a meeting between my creator and another mech. At first, I saw no one in the office, but, when Creator called him forth, he showed himself," he starts, voice soft and serene, but he shivers visibly at that point. "He was an unremarkable mech, a Chaser I guessed, with nothing about him that would have led to his being commited to memory. Just like he wanted. Creator said that if I ever required certain… _services_ … that I should contact him, Axle, before dismissing him. After the door closed, he finally told me that Axle… Axle was a Guardian."

" _Are you kidding_?!" Cliffjumper exclaims, literally jumping out of his seat and almost climbing on top of the table as he leans closer to a startled Mirage, while the rest of Autobots look confused at the reaction.

"You know what—"

"I worked in a bar, you hear things," the Minibot cuts the Noble with a scowl, before gesturing impatiently for the taller mech to continue.

"Wait a moment," Hound calls, as the others start to call for an explanation, rising to his pedes to get their attention before, once all quiet down, turning to Mirage. "Look, I'm as curious as everyone else, but is it something we should be talking about in front of Spike? You know what Ratchet said about telling him stories."

"Oh, come on! I'm not a kid!" the boy protests, also standing up in a effort to glare the tracker down. "Whatever Ratchet said, he's not here to veto it, so spill it! I'm as much a friend of Jazz's and Prowl's as everyone else, so I have the same right as you to know about it! Besides, it can't be worse than Spark Eaters, right?" he asks the white and blue mech after making sure the other Autobots have sheepishly accepted his admonishment, and the Spec Ops agent—

Looks away, clearly conflicted.

The human's jaw falls to his feet.

"Are you _serious_? How can something be worse than _Spark Eaters_?" he asks Cliffjumper this time, and the Minibot scowls and falls back to his seat while crossing his arms against his chest in a reflection of the Noble.

"Look, kid… Look, all I heard were rumors and wild stories, but, if there's even a micron of truth in those? I'm not sure if I'd prefer encountering a Spark Eater or a Guardian. At least with one, you _only_ end up deactivated."

The silence that fills the room then is chocking, and the Minibot finally realizes his words, optics paling before darkening once more with a scowl.

"What Cliffjumper means to say…" Mirage calls, still curled up defensively—as Spike has finally identified his posture—but at least looking them in the eye at last, "is that Spark Eaters eat your spark, but Guardians can do much worse and _ensure_ you still live through it. They were a special force created by the Senate to protect Cybertron, but ended up corrupting just as the governing bodies did, turning into their personal assassins and thieves, answering to all and every order of the Nobility and the Senate, _and only them_ , regardless of how many laws and morals were broken in the process."

"You mean…"

"My creator wished for the plans a minor business had come up with, but hadn't sold to him when he offered. The next on-cycle, he had them on his desk. No one could prove he hadn't come up with the idea on his own, and so the original creators went bankrupt when their product finally hit the markets under our name."

All mechs exchange wide-eyed looks—or, the Cybertronian equivalent—before Hound finally reboots his voice box with the same rasping sound of a human clearing their throat.

"So, if you encountered a Spark Eater, you were dead. But, if you encountered a Guardian… Anything could happen," he sums up, and, once more looking down at the table, Mirage nods. "And, if you're telling us this now… You think Jazz was a Guardian."

Sharp intakes of breath and squeaks fill the room.

But, while as tense as the rest, Spike has eyes and ears only for the Noble, and so immediately identifies the slight slumping of his shoulders and the tightening of his servos on his arms, and his optics going black.

Jackpot.

"What about Prowl?" he whispers, and knows he's been heard over the growing ruckus when the white and blue mech's optics light up again to meet his eyes.

"He worked for the Prime and the Senate, before the war," the Spec Ops agent answers, voice soft, attracting the attention of those closer to them. "It wouldn't be too farfetched to think he became aware of the Guardians then, and learnt some about them. Perhaps that was when they first met," he adds, mouth twisting into a rueful smile that immediately falls with another sigh. "One way or another, the only thing we know for sure is that he has managed to get the most dangerous Autobot after his spark, knowingly or not. Let us hope Jazz gets his current self back before the deadline's up, because I doubt we'd be able to stop him if he's determined."

"And you would be right about that, my lord," a voice speaks up, once more, from the door, but, despite knowing it, the mech that spoke is unrecognizable when Spike finally spots him.

Yes, the cocky and relaxed poisition against the wall is well known, as is the confident smirk, but the way the light dances almost _eagerly_ in that visor is not, especially not in this context.

Oh, and let's not forget to point out the visor itself.

The _red_ visor.

Ratchet gave Chip and the Witwicky a quick rundown of the lenses and the why of their color, something about propieties and adjusting better or worse to certain settings depending on the wavelengths the color let through or blocked or something along those lines, when they pointed out there were no Autobots with red ones.

That doesn't mean seeing that color doesn't immediately flash up as 'enemy' rather than 'ally'.

Even if it's Jazz.

 _Especially_ because it's Jazz.

The newcomer sobers immediately after speaking, pushing away from the wall with a fluid bow in Mirage's direction, who, cautiously, stands up to face the smaller mech.

"It is an honor to be in your presence, Noble Mirage. Lord Prime has deliberated with his officers, and arrived to the conclusion that, until the completion of my repairs, the post of Head of Special Operations shall fall to you. Congratulations," he explains calmly, voice devoid of any kind of accent or cadence, emotionless in a way not even Soundwave's robotic tone manages to achieve, before turning to Spike. "My sincerest apologies about my behavior and my words in our prior encounter, Ambassador Witwicky. Should you have need of anything, do not hesitate to approach me. I would be honored to serve."

Instead of a verbal answer, the teenager merely smiles. His throat is too dry for anything more than that.

"Thank you, Jazz," Mirage replies, using the high and mighty tone that the human hasn't heard since their very first days on Earth. "You are dismissed."

And, with only a nod and never looking back, the black and white mech leaves.

* * *

He shouldn't. He most definitely shouldn't.

And yet, here Spike is, slipping through the open door of the military laboratory, slinking through the shadows of the empty building.

No, he most definitely _shouldn't_.

But, at the same time, he _can't not do something_.

It was sheer luck that he, Bumblebee, Chip and Carly had been around—and all for a fair that seems like the stupidest thing right now—and that the girl spotted a suspiciously familiar group of three jets approaching the base, never mind their boring gray coloration, and told them about it.

They'd frowned and exchanged looks, because, three jets flying in Trine formation?

None of them know all that much about the military and how jets are supposed to fly, but they _do know_ about Decepticons, and since the Autobot had been driving and hadn't seen them, he couldn't say whether they were right or wrong.

So, Chip had offered to check what the base had to offer.

He hadn't been able to.

Communications were down. Apparently, a tower had malfunctioned a scant five minutes before they got to town.

That's when they'd decided it was too much to be coincidence.

Bumblebee had tried to call the Autobots, and found there was some kind of blackout bubble over the area.

All suspicions had completely vanished by then.

The Minibot and Chip had driven away, searching for reception, and Carly and Spike had separated to go warn everyone that they needed to evacuate ASAP.

They were too close to the base, and no one liked the risk of a stray shot, or worse.

Halfway to town hall, though, the boy had stopped.

The military personnel were in trouble if it was truly the Decepticons.

And, if the Autobots throught to bring…

He cursed out loud for the first time in a long while, but he'd still bargained a kid to sell his bike for twenty bucks, and told him to deliver the warning in his stead.

So, here he is now, in a base that should _not_ be empty, in search for the guilty party.

Through the tiny window of a closed door, he see a lot of people piled up, and realizes he's found the soldiers.

He tries the handle—and there's a growl at his back.

The corridors are human-sized. That means only Cassettes should be able to move around comfortably. And, of all of them—

"Ravage."

He turns, and finds his conclusion was spot on, because there the panther is, baring metallic fangs and lowering as if to pounce—

"Wait! I need your help!"

And the Decepticon freezes, before closing his mouth and relaxing—somewhat—his stance, helm tilting in suspicion.

"Please, I need to talk to Soundwave," he tells the Cybertronian, who snarls immediately as answer. "I know you said I shouldn't see him anymore, that I would get him in trouble with Megatron, but this is serious! Please!" he tells the Cassette, reminding that visit from Buzzsaw—and the shock it was to hear his deep and raspy voice delivering that threat—and knowing just how true those words are, especially since the last time there was any kind of 'public' interaction with a Decepticon, it was Starscream saving his life for no purpose.

But if the Autobots…

If, by whatever reason, they take Jazz with them when they answer this call, there's no knowing how bloody the battle will get.

Regardless of the five previous days without incident, of the compliant attitude of the Head of Spec Ops and his complete obedience regarding any and all rules, and Mirage's reassurances that he's more than good enough to keep his deathly training as well controlled as when he had all his memories.

Spike can't risk it.

Some of his desperation and fear may have filtered through, because Ravage relaxes fully then, nodding to the human before walking away with just one look back.

Dutiful and silent, the boy follows.

Some turns and crossroads later, voices fill the corridors.

The Cassette stops then, and Spike does so too, observing nervously how yellow optics dim in what he knows is a comm line opening.

An eternal minute later, Ravage's gaze focuses again.

Another nod to follow, and the Decepticon moves down another corridor, away from the voices he recognizes as Megatron's and Soundwave's and—

"I'll go check those idiots are doing what they should. It's not as if you need me to download some files, do you, _Mighty_ Megatron?"

—Starscream's.

There's a growled answer he can't decipher, and then, they're too far to catch more than fading pede-steps.

On and on they go, until they go through a door and into a large corridor, wide and tall and obviously built so because of large machinery carrying who knows what, but that the Decepticon Air Commander uses now to meet with them, a scowl on his faceplate.

"This better be important, Ravage! If you wanted Soundwave to leave in the middle of the—what are _you_ doing here?!"

"He said he needs help, and that it's serious," the panther answers calmly, voice a smooth baritone with maybe a hint of an accent that reminds Spike of Russian characters in movies, though a lot subtler.

"Help? From _us_?" Starscream questions, turning to the human with no hint of his previous annoyance, only with curiosity.

He catches up to them in the interim—but doesn't stop, forcing the smaller two to follow as he moves to the outside, or, as would be more logical, to the hangars.

"Yes, it's just, we spotted you coming in, and Bumblebee went to call the Bots, and—where are you going?"

"To check my idiot Trinemates are actually doing what they should be doing. Keep talking."

"Right, right. It's just that… Well. The Autobots are coming," he finishes meekly, suddenly feeling very stupid.

There's no way Prime's going to let Jazz come along, not as unstable as he is, best behavior nonwithstanding.

Of course not.

And… now Starscream is giving him a deadpanned look that is way too bland for the bombasticly expressive Seeker.

"Gee, thank you. Do you want some candy as reward?" he questions, voice also emotionless, before scoffing. "So the 'heroes' are coming to save the day, big deal. We'll just up the pace and be gone in a klik. Now, what was that you needed help with? Because, I swear, if you bothered me for nothing—Wait! This is a trap!" he snarls, whirling to the human with blazing optics, forcing Spike to take a step back and lift his hands—

"It's not."

All gazes fall to Ravage, sitting calmly in the corridor, who is observing the boy.

"And how, exactly, do you know that?"

"He was terrified when he asked me. _Not_ about being found out. It wasn't that kind of fear."

Before Spike can get enough breath back to ask what kind of fear that is and how did the Cassette know, the Flier huffs, softer than before, and straightens, completely calm once more.

"What is going on, squishy?"

"It's… There was an accident some days ago, with the Autobots, and now—"

Something explodes.

The human jumps out of instinct, as the Decepticons turn to the origin, to wherever they were heading to before stopping.

Starscream snarls and breaks out in a run.

Because the sound that follows is that of shooting.

The Autobots are here.

"No, wait!" Spike shouts, trying to follow, and, with a start, finds Ravage keeping pace at his side.

"Just what _the Pit_ is going on, human?" the Cassette hisses, and, taking a deep gulp of air, Spike turns to meet his yellow optics.

"Jazz's a Guardian."

Ravage stumbles, almost falling on his snout, and the teenager slides to a stop in shock at the reaction.

Cassettes are not easy to read, but the horror distorting his current companion's face is too easily identifiable.

"What—Why—"

"Jazz got a hit in the head, reverted back to his Guardian self, and that means—"

Ravage needs no explanations, yowling a curse and barking at the boy to _get on_ before breaking out in the fastest sprint _ever_ with Spike hanging on for dear life on his back.

They get to the hangar just in time to see Thundercracker and Skywarp throw something out that explodes loudly accompanied with a lot of cursing, and Starscream, taking cover next to the door until then, rushes out.

The Cassette veers sharply, hiding behind some crates, as Megatron and Soundwave erupt from the very same corridor they came through just some seconds later, all four Decepticons immediately joining the fray outside.

Spike dismounts, and, as Ravage rushes to his creator, slips to the battlefield to seek purple-marked wings.

Fortunately, Starscream's taken to shooting from the safety of the next building over.

He dashes to his position, attracting the Seeker's attention and scowl, just as red optics dim—and the mech tenses.

"Are you serious?" he whispers, and, in the process of getting his breath back, the boy can just nod.

They hear Megatron's booming voice calling for a retreat—this was, obviously, supposed to be an infiltrating mission, so there are nowhere near enough mechs to hold the Autobots back—and Starscream pulls away from the corner with a grimace, null-rays powering down with a whine as he crouches, ready to take off as fast as he can.

Spike looks up, moving away to avoid getting caught in the blast of the turbines igniting—and a shadow on the rooftop moves.

Black and white and a slash of red—

Eyes widen and mouth opens and the Seeker tenses and whirls around as the shado _jumps_ —

The null-ray shot goes wide as its wielder is backhanded to the ground, barely avoiding falling on the crouched human, as Jazz lands once more ready to spring, smile as delighted as when he first got his new sound system.

The Energon blade he pulled on Hoist is in his hand, stained with sparkly pink liquid.

Spike hasn't yet processed that when he's already turning, looking as Starscream rolls with the force of the fall to crouch on all fours, faceplate split sideways by a bloody—Energon-y?—line, claws bared and lifted as a shadows falls on the human when Jazz sommersaults over him and the Seeker's grip—

The Decepticon whirls too, avoiding the knife almost clipping his wings, and, with a burst of his turbines that raises enough dust to blind the boy, launches himself at the falling saboteur.

There's another deafening clang of metal striking metal, and Spike gets to his feet with loud coughs, seeing Starscream falling against the wall of the building with a dent on the side of his helm from when, according to the spin he finishes as he lands on his feet, Jazz elbowed him.

A flash of pink, and the knife is suddenly embedded in one of the Seeker's legs—his _turbines—_ with a shriek from the mech.

Jazz rushes to his enemy, the displaced air from so fast a movement making the human stumble back, and, before the Decepticon can recover, the blade has been pulled out and a black leg is kicking him in the face as the saboteur finishes his windmill kick, or whatever it's called.

As before, Starscream turns with the hit, avoiding falling on his back, as the Autobot rushes after him with his blade in his servos once more—

Claws are buried in a black side, and Spike screams as Jazz's smirk is replaced by a pained grimace, but he's still moving, a servo grabbing a wing—

Upwards slash, spray of Energon, another kicked up cloud of dust.

Jazz smirks once more, bowed head only accentuating the sharpness of it with the shadows cast on his faceplate, as he straightens, completely ignoring the Energon running down his side and leg and dripping to the ground from the punctures on his side, as he watches Starscream's bowed and trembling hunched form kept off the ground only by the shaking arms digging curled dactyls into the cracking road, expression frozen in shock with optics shining white.

The graying wing in the saboteur's grip makes a soft swishing sound as it's twirled around, Energon dripping as copiously from the slashed tubes and lines and the bent and broken strut as it does off the empty socket on the Seeker's back.

There's a lump in Spike's throat, and the taste of bile at the back of his mouth.

Someone screams.

Skywarp and Thundercracker shift out of alt mode as they fly away, Megatron and Soundwave assumedly safe in their cockpits in their own cassette player and gun forms, stopping in their escape.

Jazz redirects his smirk up at them, twirling his knife to let the Energon drop off—and, with a step, gets to Starscream's side and buries his blade to the hilt in the back of the Seeker's neck.

The frame falls to the ground with a dull thud, gray engulfing it, as Thundercracker drags a screaming Skywarp away.

Spike falls to his ass, turns around, and throws up.

* * *

 **AN:** _"Those who cannot learn from history are doomed to repeat it."_ \- Jorge Agustín Nicolás Ruiz de Santayana y Borrás (In English: George Santayana).

So, I'm back! Kinda. First of all, I want to let you all know I'm going over _all_ my fics in an effort to correct grammar, starting with the finished ones (you can see my progress in my profile), so I may be a bit late with updates.

Sorry about that.

About the chapter: The title makes a reference to the quote at the beginning of this AN, about how we _need_ to know about the past to avoid making the mistake of _forgetting what a Guardian is_. Because of that, and of not knowing how the next chapters are going to develop, I've modified the rating of the fic to M, just to be on the safe side.

Anything else... Well, obviously, I've no idea about military bases, so sorry about the mess of corridors (in my defense, the original cartoon took some liberties too, so... *shrug*).

And last: For all those ready to maul me for the end of this chapter... Please wait for the next one? *ducks and runs for cover*


End file.
